Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  “I agree,” said Williams. He turned to Sergeant White. “Go back to your original assignment, the investigation of the missing girl. Tonight, organize the police detail together with Mr. Miller and recover Miss Colt’s body. I’ll get a search warrant for you. Keep me informed. Early tomorrow morning, I’ll explain to Mr. Porter what we’ve done. I’ll also deal with the press. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Out in the hallway, Sergeant White exclaimed, “The inspector surprised me.”

  “Yes,” Harry remarked dryly. “Williams said what any competent, right-minded inspector should. That frankly surprised me too. Tomorrow he’ll take credit for neatly solving this case. Anyway, thank God for little favors. Let’s get on with tonight’s work.”

  At seven in the evening, Emil and Harry reported at the pork-packing plant for work. At Emil’s request, the night manager assigned them to the cooling room. About 500 tightly packed carcasses hung there from a forest of hooks. Though already bled and cleaned, they still dripped and covered the floor with slippery gore. Cleaning the room would take hours.

  From time to time workers came in with buckets of clear and soapy water and clean brushes and mops, and hauled away the waste. After a couple of hours, the pace of work slackened enough for Emil to inspect the closed duct.

  “The patch appears just as I left it months ago,” he told Harry. “But I’ll try to pull out a few bricks to see if she’s still there.” A nearby bench allowed him to stand at eye level with the patch. From his pocket he pulled out a chisel and attacked the mortar in the lowest range of bricks. Meanwhile, Harry swept up the debris and continued cleaning the floor. With frequent interruptions, Emil managed to loosen six bricks, an area eighteen inches wide and six inches high.

  He turned to Harry. “I’m ready to pull out the bricks. Bring the lantern. We’ll see what’s in here.” He handed the bricks to Harry one by one. When the third brick was removed, Harry felt a rush of freezing air. When the last brick came out, the flow was strong and uncomfortable. Emil took the lantern and held it up to the hole.

  For a moment he stood still and was reverently silent. Then he whispered, “She’s there.” He reached in. “Her body is frozen hard.” He handed Harry the lantern. “Give me the bricks. I’ll fit them in loosely, just in case.”

  He had just fitted the sixth brick when the night manager walked up. “What do you think you’re doing? Get down here and finish the floor.”

  “The old duct is blocked. The carcasses in this area aren’t getting enough cold air in this hot weather.”

  “Let it be. I’ll have a man look into the matter one of these days. The air feels cold enough to me.”

  They finished work as the bell rang announcing midnight and the end of the shift. At the exit, they lingered a few minutes until their companions went either to the next building or home. Then Harry signaled Sergeant White, who came running toward them.

  “We found her,” Harry said. “Bring the ice wagon up close. We want to keep her frozen for the autopsy. Follow us.” He led the police into the packing plant, past a pair of bewildered watchmen and the night manager.

  Late in the afternoon, Harry and Emil Schmidt waited for Sergeant White in Pete’s Tavern on Irving Place. “It’s my treat,” Harry said when inviting the others. “We must celebrate solving the Colt case.” The police had recovered the girl’s frozen body and taken it to the morgue where her aunt identified it in the morning. Harry had wired a message to Pamela. It was nearly dawn when he fell into bed.

  Sergeant White walked into the tavern, a broad smile on his face. “I’ve just left police headquarters. Inspector Williams is in a good mood, pleased with last night’s operation. Here are the evening papers.” He passed them to his companions.

  In an interview with the Mail and Express, Williams reported that the police, acting on a tip, had recovered the body of Ruth Colt, a young murder victim. A coroner’s inquest would make a final determination of the facts. A preliminary examination indicated a violent death by strangulation. Funeral arrangements would soon be announced.

  In the Evening Post, speaking for the Crake Meatpacking Company, Mr. Porter regretted the untimely, violent death of the girl and thanked the police for expeditiously removing the body with no damage to the company’s property or its products.

  Harry laid down his paper and asked his companions, “Have you noticed that neither Porter nor Williams has mentioned that the girl’s suspected killer was the packing company’s founder and chief executive?” He lifted up his glass and led the others in a toast. “To Ruth Colt. May she rest in peace. Finally.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Painful Revelation

  Saratoga Springs

  Wednesday, July 25

  Early that same day, Pamela sat down for breakfast in the hotel dining room. While she was reading the menu, her waiter came with a telegram.

  COLT’S BODY RECOVERED. CASE

  SOLVED.

  HARRY

  Pamela breathed a sigh of relief, then felt a rush of satisfaction that justice had been served. Confused images and sounds of the packing plant surfaced unbeckoned in her mind. She grew eager to hear the precise details.

  Then Virgil Crawford approached her table. “May I join you?” he asked with a slight bow.

  “Please do,” replied Pamela, and handed him the telegram. Her curiosity was piqued. Was it by chance that he came shortly after the telegram?

  He read the terse message as if he, too, were trying to puzzle out the details. “Edith and James should be pleased. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Colt, will identify her niece and bury her, a painful duty, even though they were estranged.” His jaw tightened in anger. “Unfortunately, Crake has escaped punishment again. But the court of inquiry and the press must at least tell the world that he was responsible for her death.”

  Pamela agreed, but she wondered skeptically whether the court would rise to its duty. Virgil gazed at her with a hint of admiration in his eyes. “You and your partner, Mr. Miller, have proved to be shrewd and tenacious investigators. You will also, I’m sure, solve the murder of Captain Crake . . . if anyone can.”

  An odd inflection in his final cautionary phrase puzzled Pamela. Was he teasing or taunting her?

  After breakfast, Pamela walked to the spring in Congress Park and ordered a glass of water, hoping for a chance encounter with one of the suspects in the Crake murder. When a suspect’s guard is down, he might unwittingly reveal his secrets. A few minutes later, James Crawford approached in the wheelchair pushed by Virgil. They smiled to Pamela but sat at a different table and ordered water. When they finished drinking, they lingered in quiet but intense conversation.

  She wondered if Virgil had told his cousin the news concerning Ruth Colt. To judge from their frowns, they seemed to have something else on their mind. Pamela decided not to interrupt them and she rose to leave. Virgil rushed up to her. “Mrs. Thompson, could we meet discreetly in the park near the fountain? James would like to talk to you privately.”

  With a frisson of apprehension she agreed and set off into the park. At the fountain she looked for a secluded place, assuming they were to discuss a sensitive issue. The two men arrived shortly, and she led them to a bench hidden by a hedge.

  “We are worried about Jason Dunn’s erratic behavior,” James began. Virgil took a step back but remained quietly engaged. “Since Edith had recommended him, the hotel management has approached her with its concerns. He recently seems distracted or preoccupied, and sometimes angry. His work has consequently suffered. He goes off on an errand and forgets what he was supposed to do. He resents constructive criticism and snaps at guests who complain.”

  “Why have you brought this problem to me?” Pamela asked. “Can I be helpful in some way?”

  “Yes, I believe you can,” James replied. “Since you are investigating Captain Crake’s death, you have an interest in Jason. He was at the Victor Herbert concert on the seventh, so he is a potential suspect. You may also be aware of his animosity towar
d Crake, prompted apparently by the captain’s flirtation with pretty chambermaids like Francesca Ricci.” James hesitated, then met Pamela’s eye. “Jason has recently also made threatening remarks about Edith. I fear he may harm her.”

  Pamela looked askance.

  James persisted. “Jason claims she is his mother and accuses her of abandoning him as a baby. Therefore, it’s her fault that he’s been unhappy all his life.” Pamela noticed the sardonic tone in James’s voice. Her eyes drifted unbidden toward his wheelchair. Years of nearly constant pain appeared to have drained James’s capacity for empathy. He had little left over for Jason’s complaint.

  “Why would she reject him?”

  “She was ashamed of him. You see, from his youth, Mr. and Mrs. Dunn had led him to believe that his father was a brave Confederate officer who died in battle. His mother was his fiancée, who died in childbirth. Eventually, Jason doubted that story and searched for a factual one. Earlier this year on a visit to Charleston, he discovered Mrs. Dunn’s secret diary and read a new, shocking version of his birth.”

  “And that is?”

  “In April 1865, just as the war ended, my sister, Edith, arrived, pregnant, at the Dunns’ hotel in Charleston, begging for secret lodging until she gave birth. Mrs. Dunn is our maternal aunt. The Dunns agreed to shelter her, promised to raise the child as their own, and concocted the melodramatic tale of the star-crossed lovers. At the time, Mrs. Dunn asked Edith about the baby’s father and was told that he was a common soldier passing through Savannah. He had soon disappeared. Mrs. Dunn didn’t pursue the matter any further.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Pamela. “Jason doesn’t realize that Crake forced himself upon Edith. She still suffered from the lingering effects of a brutal beating and assault. The plantation was financially ruined, and her parents were dead. Her prospects for a suitable marriage were poor. Hence she reasonably felt that she couldn’t raise the child herself. At least she put it into the hands of a decent, responsible couple. Many women in a similar situation might have left it on a church’s doorstep.”

  “I agree,” said James. “Unfortunately, Jason may believe that Edith gave herself willingly, even lusted for the soldier, a man scarcely more than a tramp. Virgil and I are both deeply concerned that Jason may have slid into a dangerously irrational frame of mind. We fear for Edith and perhaps for Mrs. Dunn. Could you look into this matter and perhaps suggest a solution?”

  Pamela considered his request for a moment, then replied, “I could meet Jason and sound him out. He seems willing to talk to me. When I have a clearer impression of his state of mind, I’ll contact you. We’ll decide then what more could be done.”

  When Virgil and James left the park, Pamela moved to a bench overlooking the fountain and thought over what she had learned. Edith Crawford’s awful secret was now likely to be exposed. Jason would probably tell anyone willing to listen. Could Edith live with that—literally? A short while ago she said she’d rather die.

  What exactly was Jason’s frame of mind? Had James Crawford intimated that Jason had unwittingly killed his father? If he realized what he’d done, he would likely also attempt to kill his mother. Pamela felt uneasy in her mind. Could James have been subtly trying to scapegoat Jason and steer the investigation away from himself and Virgil? After all, they were legitimate suspects in the case.

  Pamela returned to the park’s mineral spring in hopes of running into Mrs. Dunn. Her sour appearance could have to do with Jason’s perusal of her diary. Faithful to the visitors’ ritual, she soon arrived with Edith Crawford. They took a table and ordered glasses of the water. Both women appeared to be very upset. Edith waved a greeting to Pamela, hesitated for a moment, then beckoned her to the table and mentioned to Mrs. Dunn that Pamela was a private investigator.

  “A challenging profession for a woman,” said Mrs. Dunn through tight lips. “I understand from Edith and James that you have learned a great deal about the Crawfords and their kin—thanks in part to my disloyal foster son, Jason.”

  Pamela chose her words carefully. The older woman was breathing heavily. “Mrs. Dunn, I regret that he read your private diary without permission. If I were in your place, I would also be disappointed and angry with him. Unfortunately, he has coped poorly with his discovery and is mentally disturbed. He needs to learn that you and Edith have done the best you could for him under very difficult circumstances.”

  Mrs. Dunn stared hard at Pamela. “You have too much sympathy for that ungrateful young man. He will learn life’s lessons the hard way.” She signaled to Edith that she wanted to leave. The two women drank their water and left in the direction of the hotel.

  Pamela waited a few minutes in reflection on the Crawfords, a family in crisis. Then she left the spring and returned to the hotel. Jason might be playing his flute in his free time.

  Pamela found Jason in the cupola of the hotel’s central tower, sitting near an open window, already dressed for his bellboy duties. His flute was on a table at his side. He was looking down at his feet, a scowl on his face.

  Pamela approached him. “May I speak with you, Jason?”

  “I’m busy,” he said curtly, then looked up. “Oh, it’s you, ma’am.” He fetched an empty chair for her. “What do you want to talk about . . . as if I couldn’t guess?”

  “James Crawford has just told me that you discovered the identity of your real parents.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry that I read Mrs. Dunn’s diary. I wouldn’t know now that my mother dumped me with Mrs. Dunn, who raised me as a servant, not a son. When I grew curious about my parents, she told me a fantastic lie about a heroic officer’s death in battle and his fiancée, who died giving birth to me. In fact, my mother slept with a soldier, like a common whore. I was the unfortunate result.”

  Pamela noticed that Jason seemed unaware of that soldier’s identity. “Have you discovered your father’s name?”

  “It’s not in Mrs. Dunn’s diary. He must have been one of the thousands of Union or Confederate soldiers in Georgia in December 1864, when I was conceived. I wouldn’t know where to start looking.”

  “What do you know about Edith Crawford’s background?”

  “A little. I met her occasionally in Charleston at the Dunns’ hotel. She and her brother were raised on a plantation near Savannah. He was injured in the war. Afterward, they went into the shipping business and moved to New York. She’s rich, smart, and good-looking. Doesn’t smile much and keeps people at a distance.”

  Pamela searched Jason’s face. How much of the Crawford family’s tragedy could he bear to hear? The full truth could trigger a desperate, irrational reaction. He might throw himself out the window. Or, he could lash out at her. On the other hand, if the truth remained hidden, he would continue to search for his natural father’s identity and grow increasingly obsessed and frustrated. Finally, she decided she should take the risk and tell him gently. If he were to heal, he needed to know.

  “Jason,” she began, “you will probably begin to feel better if you understand your mother’s situation at the time.”

  Pamela then related what had happened on that December day in 1864 when Captain Crake and his foraging detachment descended on the Crawford plantation. As Pamela spoke of Crake’s furious assault on Mrs. Crawford and Edith, Jason turned pale. Tears filled his eyes; his lips quivered.

  “You were conceived, then, in your mother’s extraordinary pain and anguish. She was severely injured, not only in body but also in spirit. Nonetheless, she didn’t reject you but bore you to term. Unfortunately, she lacked the strength to raise you, so she placed you in the best hands that she knew, Mrs. Dunn’s.”

  Jason was silent, his brow creased in conflicting emotions. Then his expression hardened. “Why did Mrs. Dunn lie to me all those years? My mother never contradicted her. Maybe she helped invent the lies. The two women must have agreed that my birth was shameful. How could a rich, prominent Southern lady like Edith Crawford show her face—and her bastard Yankee ba
by—in Savannah society! Ridicule is what they feared. That’s the truth. It doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Pamela gazed at Jason and felt inept, and began to regret that she had tried to enlighten him. He was mired in his misery. Could anyone free him? Hunched forward, he stared into space, his chin thrust out and rigid. For a long moment, they sat there together silently. Pamela couldn’t find words that might lessen his bitterness and lift his spirit. He had stumbled onto a harsh reality from which there seemed to be no escape. After thirty years, society would still punish a bastard and his mother—all the more if they aspired to lofty heights of wealth and social prominence, like the Crawfords.

  Eventually, Jason let out a long, slow breath and his shoulders relaxed. He turned his gaze toward Pamela. “There were thousands of men in Sherman’s army near Savannah that December day. But Fate is a cruel bitch. She chose Captain Jed Crake to forage the Crawford plantation and meet my mother. Brutal, lecherous, and false, he’s the man I’ve hated most in this world. And you tell me he’s my father! I’m so happy I want to jump for joy—out of this window.”

  He rose from his chair and walked rapidly to the window. She followed him, her anxiety mounting with every step. The windowsill was waist high. She gasped as he leaned over the edge and stared down at Broadway six floors below.

  “Come back, Jason.” She spoke as firmly as she could. Her voice threatened to turn into a shriek. “You may hurt yourself and others.”

  He slowly drew back from the window, a malign smile on his face. “Why don’t you try it? The view is great.” He took a menacing step toward her, then another.

  She stood her ground. “Another time, Jason. I’m not dressed for it today.”